The Dreams I Wish Were Visits

Last night I dreamed about Kahlia.

I don't dream about her often. When I do, there's always a moment where I realise she's there. And for a few seconds, it's wonderful. Not because we're doing anything remarkable. Usually it's something ordinary.

Talking.

Walking.

Being together.

The kinds of moments I used to take for granted.

When I realise she's there, I always try to stay asleep. It's strange how quickly the dreaming part of your brain knows what's happening. I become aware that I'm dreaming, and I try to hold onto it.

Stay here.

Just a little longer.

Don't wake up yet.

But the dreams never stay there. They always turn. At some point, one of us remembers.

Sometimes it's me.

Sometimes it's her.

And suddenly the dream is no longer a dream.

It's grief.

In the dream, I'll hear myself say it.

"But you're dead."

Or she'll tell me.

And the feeling that follows is impossible to describe.

Even asleep, I lose her again.

People often talk about visits. They'll say their loved one came to them in a dream.

That they felt comforted. That they woke feeling peaceful. I've always wanted that, I still do.

I want her to visit.

I want her to tell me she's okay.

I want her to roll her eyes at me for crying so much.

I want her to tell me something only she would know.

I want certainty.

But my dreams don't work like that. My dreams seem determined to tell the truth.

The truth that she's gone.

The truth that I miss her.

The truth that there is no version of reality where I get to keep her.

And so I wake up. Not comforted. Not reassured.

Just sad. Alone. Missing her.

I think that's one of the cruellest parts. For a few moments, I get her back.

I hear her voice.

I see her face.

I forget.

And then I remember.

Maybe that's because dreams aren't really about the people we've lost. Maybe they're about the people left behind. About longing. About unfinished conversations. About love looking for somewhere to go.

I don't know.

I only know that if she ever does visit me, I hope she understands something. I hope she understands that every dream begins with joy. Because there she is. And every dream ends with heartbreak.

Because there she isn't.

Maybe that's why I keep wishing for them anyway. Not because they make me feel better. But because for a few moments, impossible becomes possible.

And I get to be her mum in the present tense again.